


astronomical event

by atzoatl



Category: Gravity Falls, Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: First Time, M/M, handjobs, stupid idiot teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atzoatl/pseuds/atzoatl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fortune provides Dipper and Wirt with a rare opportunity to have the attic to themselves.  They try to get it on as best as they can; Dipper's fifty-seven step plan does not go as well as he would have hoped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	astronomical event

**Author's Note:**

> this is, actually, my first time writing something explicit. i tried to just make it a nice story about two boys who like each other being consistently embarrassed. theyre aged up. or whatever age you want them to be, i guess

A chance to have the attic to himself is rare, rare as a solar eclipse, rare as astronomical bodies drifting fruitlessly through space landing on perfect lines of nodes to produce a spectacular celestial event, so rare that defining it as rare would be an understatement.  Dipper would have maybe canceled this had there actually been a solar eclipse, but that was the only thing that would otherwise deter him from getting what he wanted.  What he needed.

_Consummate our relationship in the physical sense._  Wirt had managed to get that much out, past all the stammering and stuttering and swooning, and Dipper had balked back, “you mean, like, have sex or something?”

Or something.

Ford’s in the woods.  Soos is sick at home.  Wendy has a day off.  Stan is taking a tour out, Mabel took Greg to spend time with Candy and Grenda.  

Dipper peeks through the blinds and watches the tourist group that Stan is leading trail aimlessly into the woods, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.  It would be disastrous to have one of them come back, like Mabel trampling upstairs to get something she forgot or Ford kicking open the door with a sasquatch baby attached to his arm.  A few moments of silence passes. Satisfied with their current level of privacy, Dipper turns back to Wirt, who is perched on the edge of Dipper’s bed, jiggling his leg uncertainly and absently picking at his cuticles.  

“Okay,” Dipper breathes, “okay.”  He walks in front of him.  He looks at the door.  Should he barricade it?  No, that might cause more problems than it’s worth.  Should he have cleaned the bedside table and thrown away the old paper plates underneath his bed?  Probably, but their window of time is slowly shrinking, and he can’t waste another second.  

He’s gotta be sexy.  If there’s one thing he knows about sex that isn’t just a strictly biological fact about reproduction, it’s that you have to be in a certain mood, and even though he hasn’t really had many emotions past unbridled frustration at the closed-clamshell that is the paranormal mysteries of Gravity Falls, he has to be sensual.  Be seductive.  He immediately unlaces his worn out sneakers and kicks them off his feet, dropping to his knees to take off Wirt’s dirty oxfords.

“What are you doing?” Wirt winces, dragging his heel away, and Dipper furrows his brow in terror.  He’s messing up.  Did they not get their point across?  Was consummate our relationship in the physical sense a euphemism for something else?  Should he have gotten shoe-removal consent?  “I’m taking off your shoes,” Dipper explains, and Wirt bites his lip.

“Um...you, you really don’t have to.  I’ll do it,” he amends, bending at the waist to untie the laces and slide them off his heel.  Dipper tries to think about this situation sensually--they’ve made progress, sure, because Wirt’s also taking off his socks and his sweater rode up a little so he can see a little sliver of the curve of his spine.  Dipper pulls his shirt over his head and hooks his fingers in the waistband of his boxers and his shorts--Wirt turns his face towards the door and hesitantly unbuttons his stupid tumeric-yellow cardigan.  

“Should...should I wait for you? Should we do it together, like on the count of three?” Dipper stammers, and Wirt pulls his phone and wallet out of the pocket of his jeans and tries to smile.

“Like, three, two, one, pants off?” he asks, and Dipper can’t help but to laugh a little.  That’s good.  It takes the edge off of it all.  

“Uh, yeah...ready when you are.  One, two…?”

He looks at Wirt for confirmation.  Holy shit, he thinks, I didn’t ask if we’re supposed to take off our underwear too.  Should I have confirmed this with him?  What if I take mine off and he doesn’t?  Is he going to think I’m gross, like I’m a pervert or something?  Or what if he takes his off and I don’t?  I don’t want him to think I’m uninterested, but I--

“Three!” Wirt declares, and neither of them move, gawking blankly at each other with their hands still firmly clutching their clothes.

“You didn’t--”

“Well, you didn’t either.”

Dipper collapses onto the bed with him and covers his face in his hands, groaning loudly at his own nascent inability.  He looks at the digital clock on Mabel’s bedside table.  They’ve wasted ten minutes already.  By this time, his calculations predicted that they would be engrossed in passionate lovemaking, however that goes.  He looks at Wirt mournfully and Wirt lays down beside him.

“Sorry I’m so bad at this,” Dipper mumbles, and Wirt leans forward and gives him a reassuring peck on the nose.  Dipper laughs and bats at him, and the fact that they’re at least touching each other means that they’re making some sliver of progress.  

“Um, well, if you don’t mind, I know you really, really had a very specific mindset going into this,” Wirt explains, dragging his bony index finger across a wrinkle in the sheet, “but, I, uh...had some ideas about this, too.  I mean.  If you want to try them.”

Dipper looks crestfallen at his failure and he rolls over, face down in the pillow, smothering himself.  Wirt gently rolls him back onto his back and hesitantly sits up, using his hands to guide him into a comfortable position before he takes it upon himself to climb over him and straddle his hips.

“See?  Well, it’s...I think it would be a lot more comfortable if I wasn’t so skinny,” Wirt amends, wincing slightly when his pelvis grinds uncomfortably against Dipper’s, “but, this is...the general idea.”

“Okay.”  Dipper looks up at the ceiling and finds himself flushing red when he sees Wirt’s face, pink spread across his tall nose and his cheeks and his ears, his lips pulled into an awkward grimace.  Dipper blushing harder makes Wirt blush harder.  Wirt getting sweatier and shakier makes Dipper get sweatier and shakier.  It’s a positive feedback loop.  Dipper had better steer this ship in the right direction before they both dissolve into puddles of pubescent misery.

“Wait, let me try again,” Dipper corrects himself, holding his hands up.  He turns his face to the left, closes his eyes, and whips his head back to face Wirt with his best sultry smirk.  “Okay, _babe_.”

Wirt laughs.  He clutches his abdomen and practically cackles.  Dipper looks a little crestfallen, but he can’t help but to laugh too.  Making Wirt laugh is a lot more challenging than it should be, and Dipper, for an instant, wants to abandon his previous quest to get them both successfully laid to bask in the achievement of properly tickling his funny bone, but he reminds himself: astronomical event.  Once in a lifetime.  Rare opportunity.  Now or never.

“Sorry that you can’t take me seriously--”

“Wait, I’m sorry too, just, just--” Wirt covers his mouth in vain, attempting to suppress his laughter.  “Gimme a moment, _stud_.”

Dipper exhales with measured patience and glances to the left again.  Another several minutes wasted.  Maybe the stars weren’t in the right position.  Maybe the only thing that could successfully get him hot and bothered was that picture of Wendy and the red one-piece.  He turns to face Wirt, almost ready to admit defeat, when Wirt’s face is suddenly a lot closer than it had been previously and then they’re kissing, like, the kind of kissing that people do in Mabel’s bad romcoms, not the usual “see you tomorrow” pecks they give each other in the door.

Wirt’s got chapped lips.  It’s expected.  Wirt’s always licking his lips in nervous apprehension and he isn’t thoughtful enough to carry around chapstick.  Wirt’s nose is tall and it forces him to tilt his head slightly, and the angle they’re currently at is so good.  Dipper’s eyes are wide open, but he closes them out of politeness and awkwardly kisses back.  

Wirt is surprisingly romantic.  He likes sappy poetry and yearns for the sort of soulmate relationships that he reads about in his bad dime novels.  He writes erotic poems about souls intertwining and gets really embarrassed when Dipper finds them, hastily justifying that “it’s about the human connection” and “physical intimacy is a source of inspiration for tons of different artists.”

When Wirt pulls away, lips parted in a shy smile and cheeks splotched with red, nervously asking, “was that okay?” Dipper feels the familiar jolt of self-assurance and is reminded of the time he plunged his fist into the Manotaur’s pain-hole, or when he scaled that cliff, or when he realized that he could have totally finished off the multi-bear had his morals gotten in the way.  He’s stockier and stronger than Wirt, and has zero trouble flipping their positions and getting Wirt on his back.  

“What’s that?” Dipper asks, pointing to a stray black line running up Wirt’s forearm, and Wirt pries his wide eyes from Dipper, craning his neck to examine it.

“That?  Oh, Greg got a sharpie and tried to give me a tattoo even if I said I didn’t want one, and then--mpff.”

Dipper takes Wirt’s momentary distraction as an opportunity to mash his lips against his. It wasn’t as romantic as Wirt’s had been, but it certainly is raunchy, and that’s what this sort of situation calls for.  Their teeth click together, and Dipper awkwardly tries to employ his tongue into the whole mix.  Wirt seems somewhat receptive, and, soon, they’re kissing, like, for real, and Dipper doesn’t even mind the slobber as much as he thought he would.  When he pulls away, Wirt’s eyes are unfocused and his lips are parted and a little swollen from all the attention, hair mused from Dipper’s hands.  

Wirt’s got hearts in his eyes.  It’s incredibly endearing.  Dipper stares down at him in adoration and momentarily forgets that he has an agenda to follow and allows himself, just this once, to follow his gut instead of his formula.  He scoots lower on the twin-sized bed, fingers hooking into Wirt’s beltloops and dragging his jeans down past his ankles.  He had a whole routine planned out, an entire debacle, but it feels bad to be rigid in a situation like this, whereas it feels very good to be spontaneous and to be sudden.

Wirt totally has a boner.  Dipper didn’t, but seeing Wirt’s boner also totally made him have a boner.  This is all working out very well.

“Can I take your underwear off?” Dipper asks, voice two decibels higher than usual, and Wirt quickly nods.  He’s muttering to himself, snippets of Allen Ginsberg incoherently mixed with gasps and groans.  Dipper is certain that this is a good sign.

He takes a breath and presses a reassuring kiss to Wirt’s jutting collarbone.  Gotta keep the kisses up throughout this whole thing, he reminds himself, that’s what I saw on Pornhub.

He tugs down his underwear.  He’s so embarrassed and electrified that he can’t even think of a good noun to use as a euphemism for Wirt’s you-know-what.

It’s a dick, he very firmly reminds himself, and he grabs it with as much fervor and fire as King Arthur gripped fucking Excalibur.  

He’s about to give Wirt the best handjob in the world when he catches Wirt wincing, and he quickly lets go, Wirt’s dick resting against his stomach, Dipper’s hands in the air.  “What?  What is it?”

“Y’know, lubricant would...really help,” Wirt awkwardly points out.

Post-lube and back to action, Dipper returns to his stroking and Wirt returns to being an incoherent mess of bad poetry and shaky groans.  Dipper’s arm burns a little with exertion, and he slows the pace, watching Wirt twist his fingers into the sheets and arch his back and mutter Dipper’s name.  This is everything he could have hoped for, and more.  He wanted to make Wirt see stars, he wanted to get him unglued.

Dipper feels like he owes Wirt.  Juxtaposed, Wirt has often confided in him that he feels as if he owes Dipper.  Neither of them can figure out why they’re so paranoid about their value, why they can’t fathom anyone who isn’t blood-related or directly-obligated to like them, why they’re so enraptured in their own self loathing and quests for validation.  

Wirt suddenly sits up and Dipper’s internal analysis desists.  Dipper is immediately alarmed, readying an apology for whatever he did wrong, but Wirt grabs retreating hand.  “This isn’t all about me,” he reminds him, reaching forward and tugging at the zipper of Dipper’s shorts.  

“Are you sure?” Dipper asks, and Wirt scoffs as he motions for him to sit up and pull his clothes off.  

Dipper feels Wirt’s long fingers tentatively curl around his dick.  He feels a shiver rattle up his spine, gritting his teeth at the almost oversensitive stimulation, and Wirt’s free hand grabs Dipper’s wrist and tugs his attention back to his crotch.  Right.

Dipper isn’t sure how having someone else jerk you off can feel infinitely better than jerking yourself off since, y’know, a hand is a hand, but he supposes it has something to do with the closeness, the companionship, the ability to see Wirt sans his typical composure.  Wirt’s thumb goes under the head of his dick.  Dipper uses his unoccupied hand to touch the inside of Wirt’s thigh.  Wirt stammers, “ _\--c-cast all, yea, this white linen hence, there is no penance due to innocence--_ ,” and Dipper says, “oh my God, oh my God, _oh my Goooood_.”

Wirt comes first.  His entire body seizes up tightly and he makes an awkward sound of desperation before ejaculating in two spurts on Dipper’s stomach, and Dipper follows suit.  

They’re sweaty.  They’re kind of gross.  Dipper cannot fathom how people in movies have sex before work and still manage to go into their offices with any amount of decency.  Once his skin has cooled off and he’s come down from his euphoria, he realizes that he feels extraordinarily gross and even more so guilty for not, at the very least, giving Wirt a proper “thank you for doing this with me.”

“I…I really...”

“Yeah?” Wirt asks, turning his head to face Dipper, face flushed and pupils dilated, his quixotic haze still obscuring his vision and romanticising every aspect of this from the crumpled sheets to the streak of cum on his stomach.

Dipper isn’t sure what to say.  He bites his lip and looks at the ceiling, twisting his fingers together.  I really like you.  I really like this.  I really--

“I really have to shower,” Dipper admits, embarrassed, pushing his bangs back across his sweat-slick forehead.  Wirt rolls his eyes but laughs anyways, punching him lightly in the arm.  “Yeah, Dipper, love you too.”  

  


**Author's Note:**

> wirt recites some poetry by john donne.  
> dipper is an incompetent stoodge.  
> will they bang again? i dunno. you tell me


End file.
